


Throwing Away My Shot

by StringTheori



Series: No Difficulty In Including You [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: 2016 US Presidential Election, Alex Makes Questionable Life Choices, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anger to friends again to lovers, Background Relationships, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Genderqueer Peggy, Happy Ending, M/M, Online Relationship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Soul Bond, Thomas Jefferson The Republican, genderqueer lafayette
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-01-15 11:54:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12320580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StringTheori/pseuds/StringTheori
Summary: “It’s fine,” Alex blurts out. He sounds angry even to his own ears. For all Alex knows, he is angry. The words leave him in a rush and they taste like bitter ashes on his tongue, jumbled and uncertain, as if he’ll forget them if they aren’t said. “I screwed up and he kind of hates me now, but it’s fine. I’ll - I’ll fix it. I meant to tell him ages ago, but then the dreams so we are bondmates. That means it’ll be okay. It means I’ll fix it. Right? It means he’ll forgive me eventually.”Jefferson and James stay quiet. Alex looks between them, that twisting, jolting stomach now heavy. James studies him with gentle sympathy, where Jefferson eyes him with a calculating gaze that makes Alex want to punch him in his stupid handsome face.“How badly did you screw up?” Jefferson asks after a long moment. James shoots him a look but says nothing to stop it.Alex chews at the inside of his cheek. Then, with a huff, “Realized we knew each other offline, ghosted on-line, and waited like two weeks to tell him?”Hams is Alex, Laurens is John, and this is how the two idiots find that whole happy ending thing.





	1. History Has Its Eyes On You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [missjo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missjo/gifts).



> Hi everyone!!! I know it's been approximately 84 million years but I exist, this fic exists, and it will continue to be updated now that I'm mostly recovered from my concussion in June and work has calmed down. 
> 
> Please note: Most of this chapter takes place in 2015 emails. 
> 
> The next chapter involving actual humans interacting will be up by the end of this week. :) With NaNo coming up, my goal is to get at least five chapters prepared to spread over the end of October and all of November.'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [2015]
> 
> To: Hamilton, A.  
> From: Laurens, J.  
> Subject: question  
> Do you think you have a soulmate?
> 
> To: Laurens, J.  
> From: Hamilton, A.  
> Subject: RE: question  
> Why wouldn’t I??? Doesn’t everyone?  
> Laurens, if this is you telling me I don’t have a soul, stop listening to Jefferson. I know we only met, like, a month ago + online, but I thought you had some fucking taste.

_**[2015]** _

**To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** question  
     Do you think you have a soulmate?

 **To: Laurens, J.**  
**From: Hamilton, A.**  
**Subject:** RE: question  
     Why wouldn’t I??? Doesn’t everyone?  
     Laurens, if this is you telling me I don’t have a soul, stop listening to Jefferson. I know we only met, like, a month ago + online, but I thought you had some fucking taste.

 **To:**  Hamilton, A.  
**From:**  Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** RE: re: question  
     My fucking is very tasteful, tyvm, sir.  
     BUT FOR REAL: I was just sitting here, being stupid, and it struck me as so weird that we all have these, like. Situations of fate, where the universe decides it’s going to throw us at the wall in some pre-determined middle finger at free will and that there is someone for everyone. Even serial killers and rapists and shit. How is that a thing that exists??

 **To:**  Laurens, J.  
**From:**  Hamilton, A.   
**Subject:** NERD ALERT  
     There’s a school of thought that says the dreams are just the human mind wanting a Bond badly enough that it conforms to what the person has been told and creates its own cobbled together Bond dream. A placebo, essentially.  
     All men are created equal, Laurens (unless they are not white, don’t happen to be cis and/or straight, or are, in fact, a woman, convenient how we left that out). Didn’t you ever get The Talk in sex ed class about how people can have Bonds and purposefully say ‘hell no’, walk away, and have perfectly happy, Bond free lives with a partner of their choosing? Or that soulmate doesn’t necessarily mean healthy and that it’s okay to walk away?  
     If you didn’t, your school sucks and you should read the above paragraph, my friend.  
     I’m sure any woman/man/human you fall for is the perfect kind of asshole, just for you.

 **To:**  Hamilton, A.  
**From:**  Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** RE: NERD ALERT  
     Man. And why would he be an asshole, asshole?

 **To:**  Laurens, J.  
**From:**  Hamilton, A.   
**Subject:** RE: re: NERD ALERT  
     A. You seem to think I’m great  
     B. I am an asshole  
     C. Thus, you will one day meet the perfect asshole who doesn’t shove their nose in a book literally 12 hours a day and will frolic into the sunset, cutting others down with your words and preaching social justice all over.

 **To:**  Hamilton, A.  
**From:**  Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** RE: re: re: NERD ALERT  
     … yeah, okay, that does sound kind of awesome.  
     Number C, that is, A  & B can suck my D.

 **To:**  Laurens, J.  
**From:**  Hamilton, A.   
**Subject:** kisses  
     You’re such a charmer, Laurens.

~*~

  
**To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** Laureeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeens  
     i am caffeine deprived help

 **To:**  Hamilton, A.  
**From:**  Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** HAMILTOOOOOOOOOON  
     :\ sorry bro, I don’t get people coffee unless they pay me

 **To: Laurens, J.**  
**From: Hamilton, A.**  
**Subject:** coffeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee  
     IDK, I can see you as the barista who draws poop emojis on the cups of patrons you don’t like.

 **To:**  Hamilton, A.  
**From:**  Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** you idiot  
     That is a FANTASTIC IDEA. One day, Hams. One day!  
     There are at least five cafes in walking distance of the campus. I believe in your ability to get to one of them (unless you have physical/emotional/mental reasons as to why that’s not possible, in which case I believe in your ability to see if there are delivery cafes on grub hub)

 **To: Laurens, J.**  
**From: Hamilton, A.**  
**Subject** : RE: you idiot  
     So there is actually a coffee delivery place. My adoration for your salty, shitty ways had ratcheted up a notch, gracious Laurens.

~*~

 **To:**  Hamilton, A.  
**From:**  Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** RE: re: re: tale as old as time  
     I’m waiting for TJeffs to try and say that Japanese woodcutting is based on the vineyards in France.  
     Take me up on that bet, dude, please, I need to win a thing on how shitty TJeffs is

 **To:**  Laurens, J.  
**From:**  Hamilton, A.   
**Subject:** RE: re: re: re: tale as old as time  
     No deal, I don’t take losing bets. Besides, Mads would just be like ‘shut the fuck up, jefferson, you shitbox’ in email before he posts it because Mads has some idea of how not to suck more cock than me  
     10:1 Mads keeps him from, like, wearing the French flag every day. Do you think he sings their national anthem while getting off to shows about Marie Antoinette?

 **To:**  Hamilton, A.  
**From:**  Laurens, J.  
**Subject:**  RE: re: re: re: re: tale as old as time  
     OMG YOU SHIT I just snorted coffee all over my shirt JFC Hams  
     Bondmates 100%, calling it  
     I LIKED this shirt

 **To:**  Laurens, J.  
**From:**  Hamilton, A.   
**Subject:** RE: re: re: re: re: re: tale as old as time  
     His heart beats for size baguette

 **To:**  Hamilton, A.  
**From:**  Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** did you just  
     Hairspray. Did you just paraphrase Hairspray.

 **To:**  Laurens, J.  
**From:**  Hamilton, A.   
**Subject:** RE: did you just  
      _I am a man of taste, Laurens._ Of course I did.

~*~

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** Fishing  
     I need validation, L., tell me something nice

 **To:**  Hamilton, A.  
**From:**  Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** RE: Fishing  
     I’m pretty sure you’re my best friend after having only talked for a semester  & I totally get the needing validation thing. What kind? The one where I tell you how much ass you kick at papers while making G.Wash lose his hair at the same time from pulling it? The number of times I’ve snorted coffee/water/tea/liquid laughing at an email? Or how you’ve hauled my ass out of a shitty brain space more than once?  
     All those are true. I’m not going to ask if youre okay but know I’m here, ok?

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** RE: re: Fishing  
     i appreciate you

~*~

_**[2016]** _

**To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** Please Read This  
_! This message has been labeled as High Importance_  
     I spent the last freaking hour reading old emails of ours, Alex. Do you remember the one where you asked me for validation, and I said I was there for you? Or the times you've talked me down off the ledge? Even if i didn't remember before this, it's all stupidly fresh now. I'm mad and I'm sad and I can't understand why the guys in those emails are in the place we fucking are now.  
     I’ve been talking to Peggy about everything that’s happened and with the you/me/us being not just Laurens and Hams or Alex and John. They say I’ve overreacted, that it was understandable for you to not say something right off the bat and seriously, fuck that. 

     _[Draft Deleted]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A HUGE thank you to everyone who has been so supportive and fantastic through this gaping silence of fanfic times. You are all amazing and wonderful and I have cried more than once over comments, and I promise this ending will be less of a murder to the soul, and will include the occasional doodles from moi.
> 
> All of my love to everyone, old and new, and here's to a new, bright beginning to the second part of this adventure.
> 
> You can find me at stringthe0ri.tumblr.com. Feel free to send asks! :) I will always reply.


	2. One Week Later, I'm Writing A Letter Nightly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George King Hall reeks, sticky sweet with wealth and ill-concealed old pot. Attempts to fix the historical building means the walls sink under Alex's back, thick from too many layers of wallpaper and glue, a once plush carpet looking and feeling more like an oddly colored hardwood. Chairs litter the hallways in twos and threes, small ornate tables tucked between to lure students into relaxing. Each group looks wealthy, fine and fresh. It’s only when someone looks closely do they see the worn fibers and chipping paint. Flaws spawned from age and disuse, not anyone beating on them.
> 
> Alex thinks of people with old money and bad investments, clinging to what their family once had and unwilling to acknowledge that, sometimes, history is best left in the dust or museum. He's seen more than his share of those in America, especially in the New England and the historical Virginia. He finds himself simultaneously repulsed and intrigued by them. It's the same way Alex feels about serial killers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SEE I TOTALLY GOT IT DONE... on the weekend, not by the weekend but it EXISTS (because yes, the prophecy is real).
> 
> Thank you for all the likes and comments here and on Tumblr! I hope you all enjoy this chapter. :)

**Author:** Schuyler, P.  
**Subject:** Game Night Fundraiser!  
     Because G.Wash _rudely_ refused to post information about the GSA fundraiser, I’ve taken it upon myself to do it in his stead. All y’all are invited to come and pay us $5 at the door to play exciting games like Uno, Monopoly, Checkers, Connect Four, Scrabble, Jenga, LIFE, and more!  
     Like G.Wash _didn’t_ say, it was going to be in George King Hall on the 29 th (aka this Saturday) from 2pm – 10m and will have nibbles like cookies, fruit, and non-alcoholic drinks because this is an all-age school function, kiddies. Due to double booking, we’re going to be there on November 5th in George King Hall because apparently the school thinks it’s funny to double book.  
     You’ll get tickets for winning things, tickets for losing things and not being a jackass about it, and you’ll be helping out the GSA towards having enough money to do shit around campus and help people.  
     Bring friends & family, all are welcome, the only rules are:

  1. Don’t be a jerk
  2. No making out



     Why the second one? Cause it’s the friggen GSA and the last thing we need to do is give homophobes ammo on the ‘it’s just an orgy’ front which, yes, has been an accusation. Don’t do it.  
     Who’s in?

  **Madison, J.  
**      Thomas and I will be there. Do you accept donations?

     **Jefferson, T.  
**           What, you’re going to give them money now?

              **Madison, J.  
**                     You brought it up last night, Thomas.

     **Schuyler, P.  
**           Hell yes we do! TJeffs, it’s okay, we can pretend the money is from JMads.

          **Madison, J.  
**                That sounds good, Peggy. Thank you.

          **Jefferson, T.  
**                Did you just call James _JMads_?

          **Schuyler, P.  
**                     Don’t be jelly.

 **Laurens, J.  
**           I’m in! I mean, you know that since I’m volunteering for part of it but yeah, definitely, 100% in.

          **Schuyler, P.  
**                you the best. Are you bringing your new ~companion~?

               **Laurens, J.  
**                     Yeah, Theo is stoked to be going.

 **Professor Washington**  
     Schuyler, we’ve discussed this. The blackboard forum is not the place to advertise your club.  
     That said, I’m sure the helpdesk is busy and these ‘delete’ and ‘report’ buttons are so confusing. Oh no, I suppose this post will have to remain up. Travesty.  
     What’s worse, my wife seems to think this lack of propriety is wonderful and she will be dragging me to it. I’m most perturbed.

     **Schuyler, P.  
**           You’re so mean to me, Prof. Why do you have to be so mean?

        **Professor Washington  
**                Life is cruel, grasshopper.

 **Hamilton, A.  
**      Swamped with schoolwork and work-work. Sorry.

     **Schuyler, P.  
**           Uh-huh 

~*~

 **To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** Please Read This  
_! This message has been labeled as High Importance  
_      First off: this is probably not going to devolve into me telling you off so please keep reading?  
     _[Draft Erased]_

~*~

 **To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Schuyler, P.  
**Subject:** Remember, Remember  
     Are you honestly busy on the 5 th or are you going to  and avoid John?  
     You’ve tried that route before. Spoiler Alert: It didn’t end well.

 **To:** Schuyler, P.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** RE: Remember, Remember  
     I have a very important 12 chapters to read ahead on. And, if you’ve somehow forgotten in the last week, he’s told me to leave him alone. Me reading those chapters is _leaving him alone_.

 **To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Schuyler, P.  
**Subject:** RE: re: Remember, Remember  
     Stop pining, o m g. Come anyway. It’s not like you’re going to be forced to play the damn games with him and you’ve wanted to go to the GSA stuff anyway.  
     Look let’s have a day date - you and me and we won’t talk about JL. I’m doing the American Indian Museum for class, come with me to talk about how white people mess everything up and then eat delicious food. Tomorrow. Y/Y?

 **To:** Schuyler, P.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** RE: re: re: Nov 5th  
     Your concern is touching, Peggy. It really is.  
     Appreciation legit re: the museum. I’m going to the NMAAHC tomorrow – it’s swamped so they issue tickets. GWash gave me one for then. Sorry. Eat great food for me?  
     And who the fuck is Theo?

 **To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Schuyler, P.  
**Subject:** RE: re: re: re: Nov 5th  
     Well _duh_.  
     plz reconsider the game night and find out who Theo is. It’s been an actual week, Hams.  
     (basically I’ve not met Theo, I only know them through John stories so yes, come and spy with me.)

 ~*~

 **To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** Please Read This  
_! This message has been labeled as High Importance  
_     In the span of, like, ten minutes I went from thinking I was falling for two different guys, both stupidly great assholes with brains, and then it was one guy who knew, had known, and haha, guess what? Soul Bonds!  
     I felt angry and stupid and hurt, just fucking flat out betrayed by everything, and you were the person I shouldn’t have ever felt that way about. Ever. I trusted you and I can’t STAND IT Hamilton  
     god and if it weren’t for the fact our dreams - that we -  
      _[Draft Erased]_

~*~

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Schuyler, P.  
**Subject:** RE: re: re: Brosef.  
     Yeah, agreed. It was shitty and you overreacted and now you’re being adult and admitting that to me. I feel so honored.  
     When are you going to tell Hams so my life will eventually pass a Bechdel test, Laurens? I need to be able to make it into a major motion picture and you’re messing up my stride.  
     Have you even read the note?

 **To:** Schuyler, P.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** RE: re: re: re: Brosef.  
     I didn’t say I overreacted, I said I was a little harsher than I should’ve been. Or maybe I shouldn’t have not stormed into the place where he worked. Maybe.  
     I’m still fucking mad, though.

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Schuyler, P.  
**Subject:** RE: re: re: re: re: Brosef.  
     We’ll talk more after the meeting tonight, okay?

 **To:** Schuyler, P.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** BROOOOSEF  
     Sorry, Peggtastic. I’m headed into DC tonight for a viewing party with Theo and Eliza. This weekend, if you’re free? 

~*~

 **To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Schuyler, P.  
**Subject:** GSA Meeting  
     John isn't coming to the GSA meeting tonight. I know you don't want to go to them because he asked you to respect distance or whatever, but since he's not going to be there... I think you could use some support. You could use it regardless, but now you can have it without worrying about that terrible C word (confrontation, yo). Not that I agree with that whole 'not telling him' thing, that was a fuck up but you've apologized for it, etc, it's just that having people around who understand what it's like not to be able to acknowledge something and are all on the queer spectrum might help.  
     Besides, we both know your social life is shit. Hang out with me!!! I want to talk to IRL Hams, not internet Hams. If you're ever going to try and woo my best dude friend, it's not a bad idea to have the bestie sort of on the side that you're on. And you’re cool, for a reclusive super nerd.

 **To:** Schuyer, P.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** RE: GSA Meeting  
     ... I'm only six chapters ahead in my class tonight but I can afford to miss out on it. The professor doesn't do pop tests either.  
     When and where, again? 

~*~

Despite his tendency to make sure he's at least a half dozen steps ahead of his class, Alex doesn't like to skip if he can help it. Most professors don't grade according to attendance (no matter what secondary level teachers say), and some might even hope the loud, bright young man found a way to miss a few. There's still merit in a professor seeing an eager to learn student always there, right on time, finishing assignments, and taking critique with... maybe not _quiet_ agreement (or grace). Still, he _listens_. If the professors are correct, Alex revises his argument to sound like he already felt that way (or argued out of pettiness and pigheadedness). If not, Alex is right and he writes a paper to explain how very correct he is.

It's better to be known for trying too hard than be unknown entirely.

Alex shoots a quick message to the professor of his evening class after he gives into Peggy. Short and sweet, even by normal standards, letting her know that he's unable to make it, he's very sorry as the chapter is fascinating tonight, and would she like to have a copy of the notes he made on his initial read through? Just in case, he attaches a scan of the notes for her reading pleasure.

"I'm such a gross suck-up," Alex says to his phone before he tucks it into his back pocket. HE has a few hours before the meeting, leaving him with ample time to grab another coffee.

... From the school cafeteria. Right. Yes. He's on campus anyway, there's no point in thinking of the twenty minute stroll to a different cafe. Especially not a cafe he’s certainly not welcome. The coffee on campus isn't even all that bad. It contains caffeine and sugar, all the essentials. John isn’t a requirement to having coffee.

A week since John came to the flower shop and his dreams already flutter with more color, waking Alex with a caffeine headache and the cold sweats. His life is a cliffhanger, one he grips with white tipped hands and aching shoulders. It’s not the dying Bond he wants necessarily. The lack of Laurens in his life _hurts,_ kicks him in the heart harder than not being able to have _John_. Alex wants his friend back.

A million things a day remind him that there is no more Hams&Laurens - a shitty political upheaval that should keep him up to 3am typing out a rant email goes without creation, his plots to make TJeffs cry flutter out before they reach the stage of a plausible plan.

There are so many nothings in his life that all hinge on a single, absent human.

Like - here’s the thing, Alex _knows_ loss. His mom died literally an inch from his face, his dad left before full memories formed of him, his pride, his entire fucking town, his _island_ , nearly got wiped off the planet by a freak storm. Alex gets it, he’s felt that bitter twist, adjusted to it so he barely notices when he felt it after hitting seventeen.

All of that and it takes Laurens hating him for it to actually _hurt._

A student brushes past him, jostling Alex from his thoughts. He ducks into the student union store and buys a Monster, the kind as long as his forearm.

He doesn’t feel like having coffee anymore.

 ~*~

 **To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:**  
_! This message has been labeled as High Importance  
_      Elections are soon and I don’t know how well I’m going to handle this shitshow without you  
     _[Draft Deleted]_

~*~

George King Hall reeks, sticky sweet with wealth and ill-concealed old pot. Attempts to fix the historical building means the walls sink under Alex's back, thick from too many layers of wallpaper and glue, a once plush carpet looking and feeling more like an oddly colored hardwood. Chairs litter the hallways in twos and threes, small ornate tables tucked between to lure students into relaxing. Each group looks wealthy, fine and fresh. It’s only when someone looks closely do they see the worn fibers and chipping paint. Flaws spawned from age and disuse, not anyone beating on them.

Alex thinks of people with old money and bad investments, clinging to what their family once had and unwilling to acknowledge that, sometimes, history is best left in the dust or museum. He's seen more than his share of those in America, especially in the New England and the historical Virginia. He finds himself simultaneously repulsed and intrigued by them. It's the same way Alex feels about serial killers.

Alex shifts uncomfortably against the wall, for once awkward in his clothing not because of the cut or quality, but for the sheer fact they were _clean_ and... the wall is not so much. His shirt will have stains on it by the end of the afternoon or - or whenever he decides that he needs to book it from the gay little gathering.

The only remotely positive thing about loitering in a falling down wreck of a building is six feet of a drop-dead gorgeous man less than three yards away from him is. Alex tries to be discreet in the slow crawl of his eyes over maroon derby oxfords and two inches of gold socks that disappear under skinny jeans (the same purple of his shoes, tight enough to give Alex very little reason to use his imagination).

Matching suspenders and socks shouldn't make Alex want to see if he's just as muscled as he looks to be under the embroidered light purple button up. He generally doesn’t find the yellow, glittering glasses a turn on.

The flaw in ‘ _shouldn’t’_ and ‘ _generally’_ is that this guy is hot. Like, stupidly, grossly, disgustingly gorgeous, even the stud earrings in gold and purple. If it were John or Hot Purple (as Alex dubs him, then and there), John wins hands down, but John's not in the hallway with his dumb apron and goofy grin. No, there's just Hot Purple, a hipster, ungodly hot situation, all full lips and cheekbones and his _shoulders_.

Alex is 100% compromised by the time his eyes get to Hot Purples face. Nothing in the world ever prepared him for the statuesque man, nor the swirling confusion at the instant reaction of - something. Not _not_ lust, the kind that acting on means any hope of John dies. Alex settles on a distant desire to lick gold body glitter off this guys cheekbone. Hot Purple stares back at Alex, apparently having completed his own look over.

They pause simultaneously, each caught in the act of contemplating where a mouth should go first, each not exactly sure how to approach it without fucking in a hallway. Or, in Alex’s case, to never approach and never fuck.

The chances of John disapproving of an anonymous screw in a public building, is far too high, an idea that kills any _actual_ desire. He’s already crossed enough lines with that not-telling-John thing If Alex wants a chance for there to be a line to cross in general, it means not dicking around.

"Here for the GSA thing?" Alex hears himself say, the words far too casual. What is this ‘suave’ thing people speak of? Alex is pretty, he's smart, people like his _passion_ , but he's not John or Hercules. Give him a pen and paper and he’ll write sonnets, but he's rarely been able to say a single fucking sentence without spilling words all over himself when he contemplates a one-time fuck in a hallway.

"Of course not," Hot Purple replies, drawing out the constants, soft vowels that turn to the consonants. It's also rich with dry amusement. "We're waiting for the Quidditch Club to start."

Someone snorts. They’re on the side of Hot Purple Alex can’t see, save for a flash of argyle. "You'd join, too."

Hot Purple smirks and waves a hand in the air. "I'll Slytherin all the Griffyndors.”

Alex chokes back a laugh.

"I'd make a joke about beating all the quaffles but that just sounds illegal in that context, don't you think?" Hot Purple winks.

Alex tries to think of something clever to say in the face of nerd hotness, Slytherins, and quaffles, but all that comes out of his face is, “Pretty sure you have the wrong half of Barney on to be a Slytherin.”

“I skinned Barney,” Hot Purple says with that drawl, that smirk, his full lips curling to reveal bright white teeth. “He makes a wonderful couch cover.”

Alex snort-laughs again, the sound muffled by the vibration of his phone. Thank fuck, Peggy on - Blackboard?

 **Schuyler, P.**  
     OH MAN! Sorry everyone – I could text most before my phone decided to eat itself. For those not in the know, the school lied, the fundraiser never existed. Apparently, there’s a rat situation? Bats? Not sure but it sounded less than super awesome.  
     Sorry :( Drinks, anyone?

      **Hamilton, A.  
**           … :( I’m out here now. Maybe next time. (After pay day)

     **Jefferson, T.  
**           You need my number, Schuyler. This hallway smells like cheap, melted Candyland vomit 

Alex freezes seconds before he turns off his phone. Jefferson. Candyland. The world goes cold, his skin icy, and some deep seeded self-loathing starts to roil in his stomach.

No. No, no, _no_.

Maybe the little guy behind Hot Purple is Jefferson. Alex prays that Jefferson is not a huge, leggy, gorgeous hipster. His life can’t be that unlucky as to have ruined things with John and to think TJeffs was – is – _will_ be attractive.

Alex lifts his head slowly, his face blank and skin dancing with pinpricks. Hot Purple catches his eye and for the second time that day, they stare at one another, though this time with expressions equally horrified and disgusted. At least, that’s what Alex assumes, because he feels the same way Jefferson’s face looks.

“Good Lord,” says Hot Purple – Jefferson. The strained words strangle on his lips. The other man – Madison, has to be, even if Alex can’t see him, makes a questioning noise and takes Jefferson's gaudy ass phone from him. It’s fucking _bedazzled._

Madison tries to bite back a laugh, without success.

“You are disgustingly hot,” says Alex, his own voice tight. “As in, you’re gorgeous and the knowledge that you’re Jefferson absolutely disgusts me.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Jefferson says.

“You’re repulsive,” Alex waves his hands, as if it’ll help keep him calm. It doesn’t. “Everything you believe is fundamentally foul, I gain joy from shoving arguments down your throat, you’re Republican.”

“Excuse me-“

“How can a rich Virginia fuckboy be so grotesque and Earth shatteringly blinding all at once?!”

“Rich Virginia fuckboy,” Madison says. He leans away from the wall enough to be seen and gives Alex a small smile. “Said it yourself.”

“Jemmy!” Alex loves the sheer amount of insult Jefferson manages to pour into a single word.

“I’m aroused and nauseous,” Alex slumps against the sticky candy walls. “So confused.”

“You’re not alone,” says Madison. Jefferson makes that strangled noise again, aghast, and Madison pats his arm gently. “I don’t mean me. It’s only that I’ve heard the sentiment before, from others.”

“You’re jealous of my hair,” Jefferson snips back, his long hands snagging the phone back from Madison. Alex hates himself for noticing Jefferson’s hands. “Both of you. Green with envy.”

“Of course,” Madison says. He’s mild, both in tone and looks. Alex guesses Madison to be maybe half an inch taller than himself, softer around the middle and legs. Everything about Madison stands as a stark contract against Jefferson’s wardrobe – a pale gray argyle sweater and khakis, Madison’s dark hair snipped short, his features plain and a little plump.

 _Gaston and LeFou._ Alex immediately smothers guilt and a grin. Madison is always less an idiot compared to Jefferson.

“James Madison,” Madison says, as if it weren’t obvious. Madison steps way from Jefferson, offering Alex his hand. “Please, call me James. It’s a pleasure to meet you in the flesh.”

“Traitor,” Jefferson says, his voice low, makes it sound like _traytah_.

They ignore him. James’ hand is cool and dry, just as malleable as he looks.

“Alex Hamilton,” says Alex. “Call me Hams, Hamilton, Alex – any are good.”

“Noted, Alex. Thomas?”

James looks to Jefferson and arches his eyebrows expectantly. Jefferson grumbles, his eyes mere slits under stupidly long lashes, and James waits. Alex rolls his eyes.

“Fine,” Jefferson thrusts his hand out in Alex’s general direction. He fairly simmers with resentment that only sharpens when Alex doesn’t shake it automatically. “Thomas. You’re wrong about almost everything in the world, Alex. So you know.”

Alex wrinkles his nose. “Yeah, you can keep calling me Hamilton. Thanks.”

James laughs into his hand. Jefferson makes a noise that sounds remarkably close to a wounded hamster.

“That’s rude and biased, Hamilton,” says Jefferson. Alex eyes the outstretched hand and waits another moment before he shakes it. Jefferson sniffs. “You may not call me Thomas.”

“Honestly?” Alex grins, claps his other hand over their clasped grip. “Wasn’t going to. Like, ever, TJeffs.”

Jefferson rips his hand away from the hold, indignant and huffy. James laughs, has been laughing, though only now he turns his head to muffle them into one of Jefferson’s arms. His nose disappears into the purple sleeve and all Alex sees of the smile is the curving corner. 

“You’re supposed to be on my side,” says Jefferson, sounding wounded. “ _Jemmy_.”

“Always on your side” James pats Jefferson’s arm, still muffling the occasional chortle in that stupid shirt. “Even when I’m laughing at you.”

Jefferson holds the grumpy scowl, still too fucking handsome for life. The urge to text Laurens about this ridiculous situation tugs at his heart hard enough to hurt, just as quickly stifled. Maybe he should anyway, it could bring them back together, this nightmare of Thomas Jefferson being _attractive_. Alex hates him so much. Jefferson, not John, obviously. There’s also a good dose of disgust at hating Jefferson and wanting to like, blow him.

(Okay, so blowing John is even higher on his ‘yes please’ list, that could count for either of them. Can Alex add a disclaimer to all of his inner musings? ‘John is top of the list, no matter the person Alex ogles at any given moment’? He would like that disclaimer, please.)

Being Alex is confusing.

“You are the worst person I’ve ever known,” Alex says, his voice high. “You are so gross.”

“And yet so pretty,” Jefferson purses his lips, making kissing noises at Alex. He is the _worst_. “If I get an angry email from Loverboy Laurens after you get one another off with your sad ideals, I’m blaming you.”

“My ideals aren’t _sad,_ ” Alex says hotly, ready to defend his _awesome_ opinions when the rest of the words sink in. His mind goes blank and anything Alex wants to say fade on Alex’s lips, the world instantly far too small, wrapping around his throat to strangle the breath from him. For a moment, he worries that he may be sick, but vomit on the floor shouldn’t ruin the aesthetic too much.

Jefferson arches an eyebrow. Alex scowls and drops his eyes, shoulders hunching up to protect him from the blow that is Jefferson’s terrible idiot ‘wit’.

“Sepia love dreams gone sour, Hamilton?”

Oh. So, less wit, all asshole.

“ _Thomas_ ,” says James in low warning tones. Alex shrugs, unable to keep the frown off his face. James adds, “That is an off-limits topic. You know that.”

“I only meant-”

“ _Thomas._ ”

“It’s fine,” Alex sounds angry even to his own ears. For all Alex knows, he _is_ angry. The words taste of bitter ashes on his tongue, jumbled and uncertain, as if he’ll forget them if they aren’t said. “I fucked up and he kind of hates me now, but it’s fine. I’ll - fuck, I’ll fix it. I _meant_ to tell him ages ago, but then the dreams so we _are_ bondmates. That means it’ll be okay. It means I’ll fix it. Right? It means he’ll forgive me eventually.”

Jefferson and James stay quiet. Alex looks between them, that twisting, jolting dread now heavy in his stomach. James studies him with gentle sympathy, where Jefferson eyes him with a calculating gaze that makes Alex glare.

“How badly did you fuck up?” Jefferson asks after a long moment. James shoots him a _look_ but says nothing to stop it.

Alex chews at the inside of his cheek. Then, with a huff, “Realized we knew each other offline, ghosted online, and waited like two weeks to tell him?”

“ _What_.” Jefferson stares at Alex, eyebrows high and lips ajar. “You did _what_? That is all _sorts_ of fucked up, my not-friend.”

James elbows him in the side, eliciting a grunt from Jefferson. It earns James another put out glare. Alex can’t help the bristling, defensive lurch to his words.

“Fuck you, I tried to say something. I kept - I couldn’t.”

“Having a bond doesn’t make it okay,” James says after a heartbeat of silence, quietly, like Alex’ll fight him or something. “He doesn’t _have_ to do anything.”

“You done fucked up,” adds Jefferson. He skirts away from James’ incoming elbow. “I’m stating _facts_ , Jemmy.”

“Terribly,” says Alex. “Asshole.”

“At least I’m being honest. S’more than Laurens could give you credit for,” says Jefferson, smug. Alex flinches, heat creeping along the back of his neck. “Bless your heart, Hamilton, were you high? _Are_ you high?”

“You’re a shit.”

“I am,” says Jefferson. He smiles, all teeth. “And yet I’m the one still talking to you.”

James sighs. “ _Thomas_.”

Alex shoves himself from the wall, face hot to the touch with anger and humiliation. He manages to spit out a sharp, “Go fuck yourself,” before he stomps towards the exit.

“I was offering you something to smoke,” Jefferson calls after him, laughing. “But I can also go fuck myself.”

Alex raises his middle finger and storms out of the building.

 ~*~ 

 **To:** Schuyler, P.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** TJeffs  
     Oh god tjeffs is hot, peggy.  
     Like as in super fucking drop your mouth and sputter hot, I hate everything, life is unfair and I’m like physically repulsed at the knowledge that I eye-fucked him for like two minutes before I found out  
     … like it was a thought process of ‘damn and if only john weren’t pissed at me and lines crossed, cause pretty sure if I bang another dude when he’s ticked and I fucked up that all chances are out the window shit’  
     Positive side? Mads is chill. I like Mads.  
     Brb got to go retch a little knowing I thought jeffs was is ugh stupidly fucking _too much_ he’s a disgusting garbage pile and my interest and his looks poofed the second he opened his stupid mouth but those TWO MINUTES, PEGGY

~*~ 

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Schuyler, P.  
**Subject:** hot date come on out  
     Truth time: what are you doing tomorrow? I’m hitting up the AI museum and they have hands down the best cafeteria of the whole Smithsonian. Come eat fry bread with me and talk about how shitty white people are. 

 **To:** Schuyler, P.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** tempting but…  
     Sorry peggster, the ticket that Washington gave me for the NMAAHC is tomorrow. It’s at ass-crack morning too so I might even get in at noon!  
     If you don’t mind ass crack hours, you can def head to the day-of line and see if we can scamper around talking shit about white people there instead? 

~*~

 **Peggtastic  
**      JOHN JOHN JOHN

 **Peggtastic  
**      Are you sure your ticket is for tomorrow??? Like 100%, no doubt, definitely and for sure and you’d stake a baby life on it?

 **O Johnny Boy  
**      I’ll send you a picture of the tickets peggy, yes it’s tomorrow. Why?

 **O Johnny Boy  
**      … he’s going to be there isn’t he. Washington gave us same day tickets

 **Peggtastic  
**      The place is huge and packed forever, you probably won’t see him. 

~*~ 

Thank fuck for clouds. Clouds and weather in the sixties, somehow, even though it's early November and John's pretty sure that Autumn should realize winter is coming. (Ugh, Eliza and her Game of Thrones, rubbing off on him. Help.)

The weather gives him an excuse to zip his hoodie to the top and hunch his shoulders, pretend he's freezing instead of hiding from the possibility of seeing a guy with a satchel covered in political buttons and his hair in a disarray. Peggy said it'd be crowded, and it is, the line tight and cramped and long, but John knows how this goes. He knows his luck the same way as he does chances, likelihoods, whatever you want to call it when people are Bonded.

Shit happens. Meet cutes. Adorable foot-stumbling and eyes meeting. Things that say, hey the universe wants you to know this person is going to dream in sepia so boy, you better be interesting, here, eat some sidewalk so he can save you or some shit.

He and Alex already had their meet cute, the adorable tumblings into lo-

John refuses to acknowledge that thought, the word he's used in the past. It’s there, existing, but he can't - If he doesn't let it form in his mental journal, here and now, then it doesn't count. It can't count. Not that. Not anymore.

_Have you even read the note?_

No. Yes. John woke up still drunk one morning and it sat on his chest, wrinkled and soft at the edges, the words blurring gray, but he doesn't remember reading it. That would be too easy.

If John hunches his shoulders and tucks in his chin, he's fine. His hair's loose; Alex usually sees him with it back, and John purposefully wore clothing that had no color in common with his work apron. He's waiting for his turn, that's all, like a normal person who has friends and isn't hiding from someone who could be their _fucking bondmate_ , who is-

Right there.

No. John prepared for the _maybe_ , the paranoia, not actually seeing Alex. Peggy said _crowds_ , that means no Alexander Goddamn Hamilton.

John is fucked.

John is so fucked.

Alex - Hams - _Hamilton_ stands barely fifty people away, half turned from John. He’s pulled some hair back into a small ponytail, lets the rest fall to his shoulders in a dark fall. He’s wearing the worn, oversized hoodie John knows so well, the one that nearly drowns him. They’re close enough that John sees the dark smudge under one eye and the slump of his shoulders, how he fidgets with a step back and forth every few seconds. Alexander's holding a book - at least, John sees a part of one, and it'd be so like him to have a fucking book in line - and it's so heartbreakingly pathetic that for a minute John isn't sure how to breathe anymore.

John texts Peggy without thinking, sends it with trembling fingers, and breathes only when he shoves it phone back into his pocket, the line shuffling ever closer to the entrance and he tries not to run away. His hand tightens around the ticket Washington gave him, and Hamilton doesn't look back to see.

Thank fuck.

His chest hurts, his head feels like a fucking vice, and Hams is _right there_. John dreams are in color, have been for a week, and he hates it.

He hates this.

He's so fucked.

~*~

  **O Johnny Boy  
**      YOU JINXED ME

~*~

 **To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** Please Read This  
_! This message has been labeled as High Importance  
_      I hate the fact my life feels like the scene in 10 Things I Hate About You where she reads the fucking poem in class.  
     _[Draft Saved]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEADS UP: this is not a jefferson/hamilton fic, just as a reminder. :B You can find someone hot and then find out they're a hot mess and go 'nope'. (And yes, next chapter has Alex + John = ~talking~)
> 
> My tumblr is stringthe0ri.tumblr.com - feel free to hit me up there. 
> 
> Kudos, bookmarks, and comments are always loved!


	3. The Revolutions Imminent, What Do You Stall For?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A-L-E-X  
> HE’S HERE IN LINE WITH ME OH FUCK ME  
> A-L-E-X  
> help  
> BLESS MAH SOUL  
> :( bro, need me to come and get you?  
> A-L-E-X  
> probably not yet ty, doing deep breathing.  
> The deep breathing’s a lie. Herc knows it, Alex knows he knows it, and Alex needs to stop knowing shit that people think or do when they pretend not to. At least Alex breathes, that’s a start to not panicking. He’s ahead of John as well, thank God for that, and he’s okay. He’ll be okay.  
> This is fine. All forty minutes in line pretending not to see one another were just peachy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!  
> See, I exist! As does this fic. Chapter. Thing. All of the stuff!
> 
> Typical slow-author stuff of: life has been hard, brain has been weird, here are my babies, I hope you enjoy.
> 
> All of it is true! :D And thank you, everyone, for your great comments. Hugs and more hugs.
> 
> You can find me at stringthe0ri.tumblr.com or on discord by the same name.

Alex sees John seeing him, pretends not to notice how John pretends not to see him too. It stings, less than it would if Alex stared and John ignored him, so at least they’re on almost equal footing there. And it’d be easy to wave or text, pretend like nothing happened, except they’ve never been that way. They’ve _always_ apologized in the past, talked it out through their emails, talked one another down or up, worked things into completion with actual adult conversations.

Acting as if there’s no huge, rampaging elephant in the room feels even more wrong than it does to not wave at John.

He sends Hercules a text instead, fast, panicking, unsure.

 **A-L-E-X  
** HE’S HERE IN LINE WITH ME OH FUCK ME

 **A-L-E-X  
** help

 **BLESS MAH SOUL  
**      :( bro, need me to come and get you?

 **A-L-E-X  
**      probably not yet ty, doing deep breathing.

The deep breathing’s a lie. Herc knows it, Alex knows he knows it, and Alex needs to stop knowing shit that people think or do when they pretend not to. At least Alex _breathes,_ that’s a start to not panicking. He’s ahead of John as well, thank God for that, and he’s okay. He’ll be okay.

This is fine. All forty minutes in line pretending not to see each other were just _peachy_.

He hands his ticket to the young man at the door with a smile and thanks, and promptly squeezes inside as fast as he can to hide from John. The security check ruins the effect somewhat, as the young woman looking through his satchel starts to make delighted noises at all of his buttons.

“I have a feeling you’re going to have a good time,” she says once it’s confirmed he’s just a loudmouthed liberal with Feelings. She smiles as she says it. “I love the one on the top right pocket.”

“Thanks,” he says, checks his bag for the top right pocket and the button. Pink, lavender, and blue stripes decorate the palm sized disc, along with ‘FIRST CLASS QUEER, second class citizen’ stamped on it in bold white print. Next to it is a rectangle pin, black background and yellow letters of ‘BLACK LIVES MATTER’.

Alex grins. “I don’t know which one you mean, but rock on all the same.”

“Both,” she says, shooing him away with another bright smile. “Have fun, sir.”

Fuck but does he love DC.

~*~

 **To:** Professor Washington  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** IMPORTANT  
     Sir, did you give Laurens and I tickets for the same day despite stating they were not, in fact, for the same day?

 **To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Professor Washington  
**Subject:** RE: IMPORTANT  
     Good morning Mr. Hamilton,  
     As I told the class, the tickets were first come, first serve. Should you and Mr. Laurens have both claimed them near instantaneously, yes, both of you would have received a ticket.  
     I do apologize for my oversight on the dates. I must have mixed them up somehow. Please extend my deepest apologies to Mr. Laurens, presuming he is with you, based on the context of your email.  
     Do try to have an enjoyable time, Mr. Hamilton.  
     Best regards,  
     Professor Washington 

 **To:** Professor Washington  
**From:** Hamilton A.  
**Subject:** RE:re: IMPORTANT  
     … man, you are _good_.

~*~

 **To:** Professor Washington  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** NMAAHC  
     Good morning, Professor -  
     Hamilton and I aren’t speaking anymore. I appreciate the thought of having the two passes be same day, but … please, next time, could you give me a heads up?  
     Thank you,  
     John

  **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Professor Washington  
**Subject:** RE: NMAAHC  
     I’ll make sure there is no next time, John. I _am_ sorry for not having warned you; it was not premeditated on my end.  
     Please let me know if you would prefer to visit on another day. I’m sure something can be arranged.

  **To:** Professor Washington  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** RE:re: NMAAHC  
     :) I appreciate it, Professor, but I’m okay. Thank you!

~*~

In the end, John's not sure if he follows Alex or if Alex follows him. No matter where he goes, eventually there's a glimpse of him, his hoodie, the satchel, his stupid face. Alex isn't looking at John when John sees him; he studies the displays, talks with the employees, scribbles something on an almost full notepad. It itches along John's fingers, his arms and legs, the want to go over and speak with him, to demand why or - John's not sure. He's not entirely positive he's ever _been_ sure.

Alex and Hams aren't the same to him, except they are, existing in a mental picture of half melted binary and Alex, twisting together into a mess that John barely identifies as a concept of who, what, he wants.

It's difficult to ignore the disturbing feeling of being _watched_ , no matter how crowded the room or fascinating the subject matter. John's in the middle of reading a display when the same feeling lowers on the back of his neck, prickling his neck. He takes a deep breath, attempting to steel himself for either disappointment or turmoil, and looks over his shoulder.

Sure enough, Alex lurks less five yards away, his head down and half obscured by hair, shoulders by his ears. He glances at John, furtively, a look that drops away when he sees John looking back at him. The metallic twist in John's throat is - dread, maybe? Anger? Worry? Anxiety?

"Fuck," he says.

Hamilton's still by the fucking display when John walks over, staunchly avoiding all eye contact until John stands chest to shoulder with him, close enough he can feel the brush of Hamilton's hoodie against his own. He glances up at John, guilt in his eyes, trepidation, like he's waiting for something.

Like-

"For fucks sake, I'm not going to hit you, Hamilton," John says, frowning. He keeps his voice low, leans in so they can hear one another over the din of the crowd. "For starters, public place. And I'm not that huge of an asshole, thanks."

Alex arches his eyebrows, the shithead. He looks less fucking guilty then, just skeptical, and John hates that he prefers the latter. It's not easy to be this close with Alex, _Hams_ , enough to see

"I'm not stalking you," Alex says. His shoulders hunch again. "Washington gave me today is all."

John rolls his eyes. "You're not stupid enough to stalk me, dude. You're a lot of things but that's not one of them."

"I... thank you?" Alex furrows his eyebrows, like he's not sure if John gave him a compliment or an insult. Maybe both. John's pretty sure it's both. He licks his lips (John hates himself) and looks at John with that same look, the preparation of a punch.

John knows what's going to happen. He stands stock still regardless, steeling himself for the words that pour from Alex, as if he's storing them up and throws them up at John, for John, in a hushed, low, voice. John - it's easy to back away and never hear them.

John is fucked, and stays where he is.

"I'm really sorry, John. I panicked because I never thought of Laurens the way I thought of Jack, and I've the emotional range of a warped spoon. Then you took my number, but never called me Hams even though you _had_ Hams' number, and I just - I panicked. I'm sorry. I acted like a complete jerk and I swear, I'll write up a better apology, give me, like, an hour and my laptop and I'll do it."

"Shit, I'm surprised you haven't already," John says without thinking, razor sharp, as if he hasn't deleted a million drafts himself. Alex flinches. "And I'm still pissed at you, Hamilton. You fucking _abandoned me_."

Alex opens his mouth, ready to argue, and shuts it again just as quickly. The shoulders go back up, still defensive, but that's it, really, nothing but a furious glare at the floor. It still sucks, John's still fucking pissed, still hates himself, hates Alex, and Hams, and Hamilton, and this whole fucking situation.

"Come on," he says, resigned, angry, itchy in his skin. "Don't get fucking lost, let's get mad about history."

John loathes everything when Alex looks at him with surprise.

"I'm still pissed," John adds. Alex frowns back at him, confused all over again. "And you're not forgiven but - come on, if you want to, let's look around like we've talked about."

The frown deepens. "Really?"

"Since when do I lie to you, Hamilton?"

Another flinch and flash of hurt on Alex's face is answer enough. John never knew someone could feel bitter triumph and want to sink into the floor simultaneously, it's a whole new emotion all up in his head.

Great.

"Come on, then," says Alex, slowly, eyes on John for a refusal. "Let's go look around."

~*~

They walk in silence for the first twenty minutes. Other people crowd around, press close, and they don’t wander far from one another. There’s no clinging, not even the brush of knuckles or knock of glances that catch and hold. It’s not _friendly_. One wouldn’t be able to say it’s _companionable_.

“Start top down?” Alexander says when they look this way and that, two pairs of dark eyes trained on the map picked up from the information desk. They sifted through the first area, shouldering in and out of various crowds to squeeze between a pillar and a wall back near the entrance. They’re far too close and it’s – it’s a lot. John knows it’s a lot.

“Top down,” John says. “Bottom levels are the historical stuff – slavery and what not.”

“People will go to that first,” Alex says. “We definitely need to look at it but – maybe after lunch? When people’ll be going home or looking at the art stuff or theaters.”

 _Let’s go look around_ , John thinks. And, _Did you even read the note?_

“Top down,” John says again, this time in agreement to Alexander’s assessment. “Art time.”

He punches Alexander in the shoulder, just once, gently. It takes everything in him to not react to the slight flush that crawls over Alexander’s cheeks or his small, hopeful smile.

~*~

 **To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** You wanted an apology email  
     You currently are in the middle of staring intently at a painting for the last five minutes, so I thought I would get started on the apology email I mentioned writing for you. I meant it and I had drafted something before, but it never seemed right to send it when you said to give you room to do things that you needed to do, like be pissed at me.  
     I _am_ sorry, you know. I've been sorry, and I fucked up. I mean, it's not like we haven't gone AWOL before on each other when shit gets bad. I suppose the enormous difference this time is that I did it in a manipulative way, to ... to figure out Jack and John and Alex, instead of Laurens and Hams. You always liked Hams better, you said so yourself. Which I get, I had a firm bias towards Laurens, but that was mainly because I loved him, not because I wanted to fuck him.  
_[Draft Saved]_

~*~

High vaulted ceilings, pale walls that accentuate the vivid colors of the crafts and paintings, demonstrating how history takes front and center even with masses of people filtering through the halls. John’s distracted, starts out that way, stays that way, and ends up nearly boring holes into a painting of a woman in red and orange, a teacup in her hand.

Each brush stroke rises and dips, thick stretches of bright emotions that, just maybe, others may want to see as well. She stares back at John as if they were conversing, as if the tea is something they might share. Her black and white striped pants stand out in stark relief of the rest of the painting.

Alex stands at his shoulder, not quite hovering, fidgeting. John’s distantly aware that he’s close enough to touch. He’s just as aware of the fact Alexander’s jotted down loads of notes of the different paintings and said Alexander is… Very much not into art the way John is.

"Okay, so it's a nice painting but, John,” Alexander says. “I can tell because it's been ten minutes of you staring. People are getting antsy and I’ve written everything down."

"Other people can-“ John stops himself. And closes his mouth for a breath. “Okay, fine. I can’t believe you’re not nerding out about this stuff."

"About you realizing that I'm right? That's okay, you're probably used to it by now." It’s glib, friendly, and it fucking hurts.

"Bite me," he says instead of anything else that springs to mind.

A snort. No innuendo.

John refuses to admit he’s waiting for the innuendo, and stifles disappointment when Hamilton gives him nothing. He moves from the painting to a metal casting from Ethiopia, phone out for photos. Alexander scribbles out notes eventually, leaning in to squint at the small print. It is, at last, peace, and no quips, only scribbling and murmured comments around them, other people pressing in, and the scratch of pen to paper, the press of thumb to camera, and John settles into something like peace.

~*~

"You know," Alex says, edging from the crowd nearly an hour later, from the paintings and statues he’s documented, that John’s taken photos of and studied, the same that that John keeps looking back at. It's endearing as much as it is time consuming so: really endearing. John follows close, at long last, a half step behind and at Alex's shoulder. Alex is an adult. He is strong. He will not turn just a little, so they touch, that would be wrong and inappropriate. "This is rather anti-climactic."

"Museums don't tend to be dramatic, Hamilton." Amusement paints John's words, the tone Alex heard so often from the coffee shop, that he's missed so much. "Unless you count reenactments."

"Not the _museum_ , the - this, the us doing the museum thing, that thing." Alex waves his hands, like that'd make any more sense. John makes a soft, punched out noise, so it probably makes enough sense to hurt. Or he's imagining things. Pretend hurt or not, Alex keeps talking, keeps moving away from the rush and press of the crowds. "Talking and walking almost like we're not fucked up."

John laughs. It's low and ugly, not something Alex likes at all. "Fake it 'til you make it. I'm still not going to punch you. Queer bashing's not really my thing."

Alex _does_ look over at him then, sharp. John's crowding in, hovering just enough away from him that they aren't technically touching but, Lord, they could be if one of them just shifted in the right direction. He sees freckles and something on John's face that looks like a smile, the kind of smile that fits the laugh Alex still isn't fond of.

"I didn't think you were," Alex says, firm. He's already counting the freckles along John's nose, curving on those ridiculous cheekbones. It's a problem. "It's just, I mean. You know what I mean, Jack. John. Fuck."

Laurens watches Alex watching him, quiet and still. People mill around, move against them, push past, crowd in, run off, talking about things that Alex finds fascinating, he does. Really. John just happens to be a notch higher on that and so fucking close.

"Yeah," he says without that scant shift that would no doubt set Alex on literal fire, figuratively speaking. "I know what you mean. You saw me beat the shit out of a hockey player, is all. I just, it's a precedent. And shit."

"You beat the shit out of a hockey player because he was going to beat the shit out of _me_ ," Back when Jack was Jack, Laurens was somewhere at the bar, and Alex remained blissfully unaware. "After I got up in his face and called him some names."

Just like that, Alex falls even more in love. John smiles, startled and real, warm in all of its sudden appearance. It kicks Alex straight back into that falling part, hits him in the face so he's smiling too, both idiots in the middle of the museum.

"If I remember correctly, you called him on his biphobic bullshit and pressuring someone," John touches the small of Alex's back, a brief nudge that never the less gets his ass moving. "We're in the way, c'mon. This is ridiculous."

"You're ridiculous," says Alex, master of wit. He goes regardless.

Alex cracks a smile, a real one, small though it is. John punches him gently in the arm to keep from kissing the smile and forgiving him for everything.

"Are we going to, like. Talk about this?"

"I'm hungry and you won't let me stare at paintings for half an hour each," John says. "Do you _want_ to talk about this right now?"

Alex pauses, like the stupid, beautiful moron might think it a good idea, or maybe he's that desperate. In the end, he shakes his head and punches John back, just as gently.

"What are your feelings on getting food?”

John has good feelings about food. Despite himself, there's good feelings about the little grin Alex gives him as well.

~*~

They're in line, shoulders brushing, when Alex leans in close again. He keeps his voice low, just enough for John to hear - though the heat of him against John's arm doesn’t help with that listening aspect. Everything is _Alex_ until the other man opens his mouth.

"What the _fuck_ is a collard green?"

John stares at him, aghast. Alex frowns back.

"Are you serious?" John is the shittiest Southern friend in the world if he neglected teaching Alex about _collard greens_. Shit, had he told him about grits? John better have told Alexander – _Hams_ about fucking grits.

"You get on my dick about conkies but I can't ask about collard greens?" Alex whispers back, defensive.

John groans, pressing his hand over his eyes. "I didn't get on your dick about _conkies_."

"You did! Conkies and goat water stew, totally dick-" Alex cuts himself off with an audible click of his jaw. John looks up in time to see the guy in front of them hurriedly turn away. The girl with him says something, soft, giggling, and it's not - John hunches his shoulders anyway, face hot. Alex glowers at them for a moment, then turns to look at John. "So. Collard greens?"

~*~

He gets collard greens. John buys an extra side of cornbread, just in case Alexander doesn’t like the collard greens.

~*~

"Holy fuckballs, how in the _ass_ ," says Alex once he's halfway through a side of collard greens. John stole the other half once they sat down, pushing half of his cornbread at Alex in compromise. Through a system of shifting and negotiating, each of them ended up with two pieces of fried chicken, cornbread, grits, a shrimp, collard greens, and half of a pulled pork BBQ sandwich. That had been ten minutes ago; by the time Alex makes noises about the collard greens, both plates are nearly empty.

John works on the last of his grits while Alex discovers the joy of collard greens. He always forgets how much he misses _good_ grits until he has them after a long absence.

"You're welcome," he says, smug, and takes the last bite of his grits.

"No, like - John, they look like Andre the Giant had a sinus infection," Alex gestures to the scraps of green left in his bowl. Despite his words, Alex grabs at his half of cornbread _while still talking_. "There is no way it should be this good, this is fucking magic. How can a green squishy mound be so good?"

"Shockingly, not with a pound of butter," John starts piling his trash onto his tray. "Pretty sure it's generally made with, dunno, bacon? Onions and stuff? I've never managed to do anything with them but they're great."

Alex looks like he’s going to agree, or would like to, but he’s shoveling the last of the greens and cornbread into his mouth with a muffled noise. John takes it as some form of ‘fuck yes’. John smirks, triumphant.

“You going to go to game night?” Alexander says while John is mid-smirk. He’s muffled, of course, having swallowed the food far before he should’ve, but that doesn’t make the words any less coherent. Either way, it’s his turn to smirk when John coughs in surprise, sputters on his glass of water.

“I,” says John. Then, “Yeah, I’m volunteering. I’m going to be there.”

Alex nods, poking at his empty plate with a napkinned finger. “Is it cool if I make an appearance?”

John coughs again, and pushes the glass away from himself. Alex… Alex doesn’t look up at him. It twists at John, cold and sharp, and everything centers in at the downturned face and slightly loose hair, the worn fabric of his jacket, long and inkstained fingers, and… And, just, fuck.

“One condition,” John says. Alex looks at him suspiciously, warily. “It’s cool so long’s you know it’s cool if you’re at Peggy’s on Tuesday. With the election and whatever.”

Alex’s face goes blank. John pauses, eyes on him, and for the first time feels as if _he_ just crossed some line. Another line. A bad line?

“So, you’re – you’re okay with this?” Alex says, waves his hand between the two of them. “How this is, with us talking and hanging out?”

John makes a face and pretends not to see the full body flinch in response.

“I’m not, like, good with it. We’re not _okay_ , Alexander. This isn’t – we’re not going to be like we were before, that’s not,” John shakes his head. “I don’t know if we can even be _friends_ like we used to be. But the last two years existed, and I can’t pretend they didn’t, and – Hamilton. Alex. I don’t know if I can do the shitshow on Tuesday alone.”

“That’s kind of fucked up, John,” says Alex. It’s John’s turn to flinch. “I’m like, a security blanket? That’s – whatever. Yeah. Okay. I’ll see if I can get off work early on Tuesday.”

Every inch of his skin feels raw and red, although it’s probably just the fact that Alex isn’t _wrong_.

“Sorry,” John says. And, “Thanks. It's a dick move on my part. You don't have to.”

Alex shrugs, says "It's fine."

John doesn’t feel any better about it.

~*~

 **Pegasaur  
**      you doing ok?

 **Hamburgler**  
     i'm a security blanket.

 **Pegasaur**  
     ...so... no? are we talking like blankie from brave little toaster?

 **Hamburgler**  
     no. maybe? what the fuck is a brave little toaster?


	4. Raise a Glass to Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **To:** Schuyler, P.  
>  **From:** Laurens, J.  
>  Subject: RE: re: MUSEUM  
> we ended up talking about our _feelings_ , Peggy. I can't - like, even after I said, "no alex, we are not okay but also will you come be my emotional support blanket because I am a dependent little shit" and he was like "you're a dick, wtf, but yeah I'll be there", he was all "btw we should talk about our feelings"  
> I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT MY FEELINGS, PEGGY.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I exist! Probably. That's a mystery. It's been, uh, a year, and I'm a terrible human creature for it. It's been a rough... yeah, p much. I'be tried to rewrite this chapter a million times and only now has it finally been something not trash.  
> I have a chapter and a half to go so I will be trying to get those out before I head back to work on the 27th. Fingers crossed. :B

**To:** Schuyler, P.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** RE: re: MUSEUM  
we ended up talking about our _feelings_ , Peggy. I can't - like, even after I said, "no alex, we are not okay but also will you come be my emotional support blanket because I am a dependent little shit" and he was like "you're a dick, wtf, but yeah I'll be there", he was all "btw we should talk about our feelings"  
I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT MY FEELINGS, PEGGY.  
But no, we _had_ to discuss them because I'd been a dick, and he looked all, like, fucking HURT, and it was even worse because he was hurt but pretending he wasn't and the fact it wasn't a guilt trip just - ugh.  
I just wanted to go to the cool museum, not face feelings. or alex.  
This is a mess.

  
**To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Schuyler, P.  
**Subject:** RE: re: re: MUSEUM  
john abraham washington laurens, you can't send me that cluster of an email and then not tell  
me what you guys talked about or what happened.  
we're supposed to be friends  
Spill.

**To:** Schuyler, P.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** RE: re: re: re: MUSEUM  
Maybe I was being a little dramatic. We... went back to the museum? And walked, a little, in dead silence for... a long time. And like I said, he was hurt, trying not to look hurt, and the lack of eye contact was shitty. I may have been the one to say, "do you want to talk about feelings or some shit" and he was the one who was like, "you don't want to, John."  
"Yeah, well, I don't want to wake up at the asscrack of dawn to make coffee but I do it anyway." then he looked hurt _again_. So I said, "You aren't an obligation or whatever. Can we just talk and treat it like a band aide please."  
He said, "Okay, so I have feelings."  
No shit. I didn't say it but I'm pretty sure my face did, because he got all huffy and stomped off to a side chair. Of course I followed, like a tool, and was like, "okay, so you have feelings. I don't want to be mad at you anymore."  
"why? because _you_ have feelings?" (By the fucking way, Peggy, he's a fucking salty smartass.) I might have kicked him in the ankle. Gently. And he might've kicked back, the little shit, and said, "You have enough feelings to need an emotional support Alex bear."  
which is... fair. I guess. The dick.  
"I had feelings," I said, since I wanted him to be not... whatever he was, and the truth seemed like something I owed him, at least a little. Or a lot. "Past tense because right now I'm mad and can't trust you but I _did_ , like a week ago. So that's something?"  
"I guess," he said. "You know we're bondmates right?"  
"You know that doesn't make it okay, right? Like, bonds don't mean shit when it comes to this. It's not a fallback." (I can't believe I ever said this and will deny it if you tell anyone. I'll burn this entire server to the ground.)  
"You barged into my _work_ , John," he said and, again, yeah. Not unfair. "Just thought I'd throw that out there."  
"We've established that I'm an asshole," I mean, being an asshole is my _existence_ , Peggy. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. That was shitty of me. I was-"  
"Mad?"  
"Fuck you," I said. And, I swear Peggy, I swear to any and all gods, if you mock me for this I will end our friendship on the spot, I said, "Devastated, you asshole. Okay? Favorite customer and crush I wanted to not have, best friend and - and dude with dreams like mine, both the same people, and I only found out because you at first decided to cut me off _my best friend_. It was rude and inappropriate and if I'd taken a second to fucking breathe I wouldn't have, but I did, because I don't know how else to take what feels like betrayal. Okay?"  
He said, "Oh." Just fucking "oh". I said, "yeah." He said, "Okay."  
That's all we said about it. approximately.  
fuck.

**To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:**  
**Subject:** Jesus, John  
dude.

**To:** Schuyler, P.  
**From:** Laurens, J.  
**Subject:** RE: Jesus, John  
I know. I'm an asshole.

**To:** Laurens, J.  
**From:** Schuyler, P.  
**Subject:** RE: re: Jesus, John  
not what i was going to say. you need a hug. I'm coming over.

~*~

**To:** Hamilton, A.  
**From:** Schuyler, P.  
**Subject:** IMPORTANT  
do you need a hug, Hams?

**To:** Schuyler, P.  
**From:** Hamilton, A.  
**Subject:** no.  
thanks, though. :)

~*~

**UNKNOWN**  
This is Hamilton.  
Can't sleep.  
May I call you?  
If you are asleep/want to pretend you’re asleep/don't want to answer this that's 100% okay

**Turtle**  
yeah.

John stares down at the phone and tries not to get sick all over his couch. Three in the morning, the game... thing happening later that day, and he's only managed an hour of sleep, on and off. The text doesn't come as a surprise, no matter how much he tries to tell himself that it does. Alexander reaches out when something is wrong. Even, it seems, when the thing that's wrong is John himself.

He presses send anyway, feels the vibration a split second later, and hits Accept before his ringtone has a chance to sound. John curls in on himself, near fetal on the couch, blankets all around and under, covering and warm, heavy as an embrace, cold to the core regardless of how many layers he piles on. The muted television casts technicolor light in the otherwise dark living room, though John pays it no mind, his eyes a million lightyears away and narrowed in on the ragged breathing on the other end of the line.

"John?" Hamilton says - rasping, wavering, soft enough for John to squirm into an upright position. Then, "Sorry."

"I was up," John does his best to sound firm on that, a furrow of a frown forming between his eyebrows. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," says Hamilton the liar.

"You're usually better at lying," John pauses, face heating up. The silence on the other end sounds distinctly hurt. "That's not what I meant, Alex."

Hamilton shrugs. Or there's a sound on the other end that sounds like a shrug, along with a weak, thin laugh. "You aren't wrong," he says.

"What's wrong?" John says again, softer this time. He's _trying_. Just because there's this complicated well of - of _feelings_ about shit doesn't mean he's going to tell Alexander to fuck off when he sounds this fragile. John's angry, not a fucking _monster_.

"It's not you," Alex says, one again showing he is a shitty liar when upset. "Can you - remember when you left that message?"  
John sucks in a sharp breath, not stung but unable to think of a proper response save for a low, "Yeah."  
  
"Can you do that again?"

"Alex," John starts, stops himself. "Do you want me to call you back, leave a message?"

John grips his phone tighter, wills himself to wait. The silence wrecks him, piece by careful piece, and he's not sure how to handle this. Last time was emails and friendship in the middle of summer, no drama between them, no mistrust or rage in the workplace. This is - this isn't what it once was.

"You could," comes the soft voice after far too long a pause. "Yeah, that'll be-"

"Te quiero," John blurts out before he can stop himself. Alexander falls silent again. "Y me mueves el tiempo de mi vida sin horas. Te quiero en los arroyos pálidos que viajan en la noche, y no termina nunca de conducir estrellas a la mar."

John isn't sure if he's proud or embarrassed at having memorized a poem at all, or having memorized _that_ particular poem. He's - well, it's something, at least. The fact Alex balked at having a voicemail instead of something live said something important about where he is on the Fucked Up meter and John just, he can't, he won't be that person to _ruin_ Alex, no matter what happened between them.

At least Alex doesn't know fucking Spanish.

"Doesn't 'te quiero' mean-"

_Fuck_.

"Not done," John manages to bite out, sharper than he intends. John never claimed to be a reasonable person when it comes to his feelings. To - To Alex, specifically.

Alex lets out a slow breath. "'Kay."

"Uhm," says John, somewhat thrown. Just for a moment, then, "Te quiero en aquella mañana desprendida del vuelo de los siglos que huyó su nave blanca hasta el agua sin ondas donde nadaban tristes, tu voz y mi canción. Te quiero en el dolor sin llanto que tanta noche ha recogido el sueño en le cielo invertido en mis pupilas para mirarte cósmica, en la voz socavada de mi ruido de siglos derrumbándose. T-Te quiero - grito de noche blanca..."

John's voice caught, tripping over the next words. Screaming of white night, reflective _fucking_ insomnia, and - and fuck.

Fuck.

"En el insomnio reflexivo de donde ha vuelto en pájaros mi espíritu. Te quiero...Mi amor se escapa leve de expresiones y rutas, y va rompiendo sombras y-" John needs to stop. He has to stop, keep his fucking words to himself, the words of the poem and, and. His mouth moves anyway, softer, stilted, smaller. "Y alcanzando tu imagen desde el punto inocente donde soy yerba y trino."

~*~  
  
Alex thinks about looking the poem up. John left it on his machine, it wouldn't be _difficult_ to pick out a string of words and hit up Google.

He almost does. It'd be so easy.

It feels like a violation of trust.

Alex has betrayed John enough. He listens to the poem, enough to mouth the words come election night, and stays the fuck away from Google.

~*~

"I think I'm having a panic attack," Hamilton says, staring at himself in the mirror. Aaron watches him with unimpressed eyes, aware that he had the look of a man utterly _bored_ with his life. Or indifferent. He hoped indifferent, it felt less like being Hamilton. At any rate, Hamilton doesn't look as if he's having a panic attack, save for his wide eyes and his statement of 'I think I'm having a panic attack'.

"Deep breaths," Aaron says. "Do you want me to hug you?"

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?"

Aaron shrugs from his bed. _You look like you need one_ is the default, and likely expected answer, and it isn't entirely incorrect. Still, he knows better than to try and make Alexander Hamilton feel like he has an emotion beyond Indignant or Pissed. It never turns out better for either of them, not that Alexander ever tries to think about anything beyond his immediate emotions (or the future so far off that even Aaron is impressed).

He's not sure what one is supposed to know about Alexander Hamilton, nor what he is supposed to do in this particular case of absolute silliness. It's almost like Alexander himself thrives on the ridiculous things that are his life and his complete lack of panic attack. Aaron saw him have a panic attack; he's pretty sure that Alexander is working himself into one right now, in front of him. It's never easy to pull him out of it but Aaron knows how to try and sometimes succeed.

"You look like you might need one," he says despite his better judgement. Alexander makes a face at him, one that Aaron either files away under the drawer of 'petulant child' and 'grudgingly agreeing', and refuses to judge one way or another. "He asked you be there, what's there to be worried about?"

"You suck," Alexander says, grumbling again. Aaron only shrugs, and keeps his voice impassive. It's the easiest way to get something out of Alexander: Indifference. He reacts to emotions the way a child does and there are few things that Aaron enjoys more than riling Alexander up. Apathy and disinterest irritate him far more than anything else Aaron Burr could do outside of, maybe, telling him that John is worthless.

But - still. Err on the side of caution and all that.

" _Are_ you having a panic attack?" Aaron says, tries not to sound doubtful. He's only been witness to one such breakdown and it looked nothing like the Alexander before him. "Last time you were more..."

There's no polite word for 'fetal', so Aaron says nothing at all.

"No," Alexander says after a long moment, says it like Aaron's asking too much but not enough. They're at yes or no status, then, and Aaron's _curious_ , no matter how hard he tries not to be.

"Would you like my opinion?"

"Since when do you have opinions?"

Aaron blinks. Alexander glares at Aaron in the mirror, or perhaps at himself. It's difficult to tell.

"Fuck," Alexander says at the same time Aaron says, "My observations, then."

Alexander scowls, turns, and _throws himself_ onto Aaron's bed. Aaron skirts away from him, wary, eyes narrowing without intent. Alexander glares at the ceiling so... that's an improvement?  
Maybe?

"That was shitty of me," Alexander says. "I guess. Yeah, give me your observations."

Aaron edges further from the sprawled Alexander Hamilton, unsure of how to proceed with this new turn of events. Alexander doesn't keep talking, however, which is and of itself a _miracle_ , just looked at the plaster above their heads. It's enough to push Aaron into conversation or, at least, into saying his _observations_ because God forbid he has an actual opinion for once in his life. The fact that Alexander Hamilton almost _apologized_ is enough to spur him on.

"Observations," he says after a heavy moment. Alexander grunts. "You did what you did for the reasons we discussed. I'm not going to go into it, as you know what happened, we all know what happened, and it's something that we are going to ignore for the time being."

"Right," Alexander says.

"John asked you to be at the game night. Or," Aaron says, louder, when Alexander looks at him as if he's about to protest the semantics of that. "Rather, he told you that he _needs_ you at the political thing and that you are _welcome_ at the game night."

Alexander grumbles.

"Am I wrong?" Aaron asks. It's a rhetorical question (his favorite kind), and only earns him a dark glare in return. "You then told him he was an asshole-"

"A dick move," Alex huffs. "I told him it was a dick move."

"You insinuated he was an asshole, to his face, and he agreed. After that, you discussed feelings, he admitted he once had them _and_ that you held a bond, along with the fact that you devastated him with your ill-thought actions. Am I missing anything else?"

Silence falls over them, long and heavy, Alexander glaring at wall. Aaron waits. He's good at that. Many things, honestly, but especially waiting. During the silence Aaron wonders, idly, if John Laurens could take a proper punch for being a selfish shit.

Not that Aaron would. It's untrue, unkind, and John never did anything to Aaron personally to warrant that kind of language, even to spur Alexander into something akin to action. It might work, one day, but at the time, at that moment, not so much.

So he shrugs, waits, and Alexander Hamilton doesn't disappoint in the least.

"Look, it's not a panic attack if I'm worried about hitting things up with the proper amount of ... civility," Alexander says with a little bit of a grumble to the words, as if it'll change anything Aaron may say. It doesn't. "Or looking like a reasonably mature human being who knows how to cloth himself at the very fucking least."

"Deep breaths," Aaron says, slowly. "And you're the one who said that you think you're having a panic attack, not me. Would you like me to use the square thing? I like the square thing."

"How the fuck do you know about the square thing?" Alexander huffs the words.

Aaron raises an eyebrow. "You?" Alexander stills, eyes him the same way he did when Aaron offered to pick up their coffee once, rather than buy it. The suspicion is almost overwhelming. It's charming, in a way that isn't really all that fucking charming. "I heard you, once, and then I asked you about it. You told me."

Alexander frowns at him, still suspicious.

"I think you were drunk," Aaron adds by way of excuse. Alexander laughs, rough, coarse still.

"I had an actual panic attack last night," he admits, voice so low Aaron strains to hear. "I asked if I could call him. He said yes."

"Jesus, Alexander," Aaron breathes the words before he thinks them, catches himself from continuing. Alexander only shrugs.

"He - I freaked out a little, ok? And he," Alexander breaks off, face red. Then, "A long time ago he left a message in Spanish to- to calm my ass down. I've changed phones and it got lost somehow, so he did it again for me. Last night."

Aaron hesitates, only for a heartbeat. "He left you another voicemail?"

"That too," Alex mutters. "But first, uhm. It was while we were talking. A poem."

"Oh?"

"I'm pretty sure there were like, seven 'I love you's in there. Te quiero?" Alexander blinks at the ceiling. "I know te amo is like... husbands or best friends but-"

"Te quiero is for boyfriends or girlfriends and close friends," Aaron interrupts, unrepentant. "Maybe extended family."

Alexander stares at him. "You speak Spanish?"

"I grew up in Newark and went to a private school, Alexander. Shockingly enough, learning Spanish, Spain or otherwise, is highly encouraged." Oh, and that glower. Right. "I also learned French. Some, anyway. A smattering of other romance languages."

"You're disgusting," Alex says.

"Thank you?" Aaron moves even further from Alexander, lips curving into a wry half-smile. "But aren't you glad I can help with your lack of observations?"

Alexander looks away. Aaron takes it as agreement.

"If you're going to be in love with a boy who speaks perhaps the only language you never learned," Aaron says mildly. "Perhaps you ought to learn it."

"Fuck you," Alex grumbles. He sighs. "Maybe."

"Get dressed," This time, Aaron shoves at Alexander's side with one socked foot. "Don't have a panic attack. We are going and it's an hour away, look presentable."

Alexander blinks at him, as if surprised by Aaron stating the obvious. Maybe he is. Aaron doesn't try to predict the way he thinks; it causes stress. ... That's a lie, he tries, he stresses, gets a headache, and dislikes Alexander for things not in his control. Also for things in his control. It's a mess.

"You meant it when you said you'd go?" Alexander says slowly, a furrow quirking between his eyebrows. "For real?"

Aaron levels him with a flat stare. "How often do I joke?"

"Fair," Alex frowns at him. "Thank you."

"Ugh," says Aaron. "Don't make me kick you. Go get dressed."

  
**  
****~*~**

**  
** _I love you ..._  
 _and you move the time of my life without hours._

_I love you_   
_in the pale streams that travel at night,_   
_and never ends to drive stars to the sea._

_I love you_   
_in that morning detached from the flight of the centuries_   
_that his white ship fled to the water without waves_   
_Where they swim sad, your voice and my song._

_I love you_   
_in the pain without crying that night has collected so much sleep_   
_in the sky inverted in my pupils to look at you cosmic,_   
_in the voice undermined by my centuries-old noise collapsing._

_I love you_   
_(scream of white night ...)_   
_in reflective insomnia_   
_where my spirit has returned in birds._

_I love you ..._  
 _My love escapes from expressions and routes,_  
 _and it's breaking shadows and reaching your image_  
 _from the innocent point where I am yerba and trill._  
\- "Te Quiero", Julia du Burgos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if the translation I received for the poem is inaccurate; I will adjust as needed. Uh, same with the whole chapter, actually, just in case I stare at it in a few and realize it's wonky.
> 
> You can find me at www.stringthe0ri.tumblr.com


End file.
